Kissing in the Rain & Duel Monsters: Raindrops on a Rose
by wordsmithie
Summary: Maximillion Pegasus finds himself having to ask a very important question. Valentine's Day oneshot.


**Hi guys. With Valentine's Day approaching I was struck by the idea to do some YGO drabbles to mark the occasion. I took my inspiration from the mini youtube series "Kissing in the Rain" by Shipwrecked Comedy, directed by the wonderful Yulin Kuang. It's basically short clips of popular literary characters kissing in the rain, filmed and acted beautifully.**

**As the week goes on I'll be posting other drabbles, leading all the way up to V Day, so keep an eye out for them. **

**Enjoy :)**

**Word Count: **1,239

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**\- Kissing in the Rain &amp; Duel Monsters -**

**\- Raindrops on a Rose -**

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"Rose for a rose," he declares, pulling out the flower from where he'd been holding it behind his back during their walk to the hill behind her manor. In his excitement, the flower rushes up and bobs haphazardly against her nose and lips.

She pulls back a little, eyes rounded, mouth opening to form a smile and then his name. "Max! You've brought me a flower," and she beams at him as if he's brought her the world.

"Ahem, yes, well," he quibbles, holding the flower a little lower so that his lack of co-ordination won't embarrass him again. "I've come with a special invitation."

"Oh?" An eyebrow lifts up in intrigue, and it intrigues him enough in turn to want to trace it with a finger.

He clears his throat, stepping back a little. "Yes, my father's having a ball tonight," he begins.

"Yes, I know, we received our invitations last month," she points out, her eyes laughing though her lips make an admirable effort to maintain their dignity.

"Yes, I know," he nods, inhaling, rallying his courage for his next words.

"And we have accepted, you remember?" She is not even trying anymore, her usually shy rose-bud smile tucked behind this maddeningly teasing grin that trembles across her lips.

He regains ground in a quick step, enjoying the startled look that flits across her face.

"Would you _please_ keep quiet, for just one moment?" he begs, tilting his head forward. "If at _all_ possible." He watches her bite her lip, and tries to bite back his own smile.

She sighs. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose I _could._"

"Good-"

"But only for a moment," she interrupts him to point out.

He frowns, shakes his head, tries to look rebuking. "Cecilia."

She only continues to smile shamelessly.

"You have absolutely no tact," he informs her.

"I know, it's an absolute shame, isn't it?"

The utterly tragic look on her face pulls a surprised chuckle out of him, and he stands there, shoulders shaking, drinking in the light that shines so incandescently from her eyes.

The wind dances harder, as if it has picked up the beat of his heart, a wild, chaotic tempo that has her yellow locks of hair dancing madly with it.

He reaches out, combing away the tangling strands that flutter over her eyes, takes another step, another breath, and then stops, because he realizes that her eyes are no longer laughing, but are quite serious.

And his heart skitters.

"Well, you see . . ." He swallows. "The thing is – " well, the thing is that he's never done this before, never asked her specially, never singled out what they were, and he is not entirely sure what will happen if he does.

He licks his lips, suddenly aware of her slack ones, suddenly aware of how much power that such small things have over him, suddenly aware that this is not a good idea, that he needs to turn back now.

But suddenly, gloriously, she moves closer, those serious eyes never leaving his face, and she takes hold of the flower that waits patiently between them, covers it and his hand in one quick, quiet movement.

"What is it, Max?"

He is surprised that he can still hear her voice over the blood rushing in his ears. Or maybe that's the wind?

"I, uh . . .," he can't look away from her eyes, aware that he's brought them both to this edge, and that he is going to have to be the one who pushes them over. "I was wondering if you wanted to come to the ball with me."

He can feel the beat of his heart pulsing all the way to his fingertips, imagines it bleeding through the rose, and into her fingers.

"To the ball?"

"Yes," he says, through drying lips. "As my date."

Her eyes widen, her dawning realization making him sick as the moments tick forward.

She looks down to where their hands join around the flower, hers resting on top of his. Her other hand lifts, her fingers brushing over his palm. She plucks the rose out of his hands and lifts it to her lips, breathes in deeply, and then looks up at him with a smile that makes him wish he'd brought a whole bouquet-full.

"Of course. I would love to go with you."

It is easy to fall under the powerful hypnotism that is her smile. So easy to be pulled forward, to pull closer, so easy for his lips to long for hers with an ache so visceral that he can feel them prickle in anticipation.

The wind surges again in an invisible wave of celebration. She pulls the rose closer to her chest, trying to shield the petals, while her hair whips in a frenzied halo around her.

"You should tie it back when you're outside," he murmurs.

She looks up, and he is startled to realize how close they are.

"Like you, you mean?" A corner of her mouth lifts, her fingers rising to stroke his forehead.

"Like me," he agrees, turning his head slightly so that his forehead nuzzles the heel of her palm. He bends closer, fascinated by the arc of pink blossoming across her cheeks, the way her lips are open just slightly, closer, closer, when-

Plop.

A raindrop splatters squarely onto her nose.

"Oh," she exclaims, her eyes crossing as she tries to examine the tip of her nose.

He chuckles at her ludicrous expression, bending to kiss away the offending water droplet.

"Oh," she breathes, and he can feel her still.

"Yes," he says, kissing the side of her nose. "Oh." And then the other.

"It's raining," she says, sounding faint.

He kisses the corner of her lips. "It is." Has she always smelt this good? And how could he have even conceived this taste of her?

"Celia," he murmurs, the name slipping through his lips as easily as it always has. He pulls her even closer, moves to wrap his arms completely around her, giddy with the scent of her, desperate to become intoxicated beyond reason.

But she suddenly goes rigid and pushes against him.

"It's raining," she says, alarmed.

"Uh, yes?" He feels slightly breathless, and he hasn't really started.

"The rose is going to be ruined!"

She turns to walk away, but he grabs her arm and swings her around, trapping the rose between their bodies, their mouths panting inches away from each others'.

"Would you forget the rose?" he pleads in a rough whisper, and manages to wait for the infinitesimal nod, before finally – _finally_ – joining his lips to hers.

It is everything he has dreamed of, and nothing he could possibly imagine. She is both strong and pliable in his arms, and he is dizzy with the certainty that that is exactly where she belongs. It is a beautiful set of contradictions that has him devouring and giving, going on even as the shortness of breath is telling him to stop.

Minutes later, she will demand that he give the jacket to shield the rose against the wind and the rain as they splash back to her house with damp cheeks and pulsing lips.

And years later, he will find its dry, withered petals, the colour of days-old blood, among the remaining things that can only be a reminder and never a replacement.

But for now – for now, they simply kiss.

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**Please leave your reviews at the door. They are my elixir. **


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